The Beginning of the End
by SpyVsTailor
Summary: There's a road at the end. You must walk down it, there's no going back from where you started, because there is no beginning, there is only an end. Margaret Rohan finds that this road can be both blissful and troublesome as she makes the journey with the one regret she had in life. You can't ever go back to where you were. Every step counts. This is the beginning of the end.
1. Chapter One

**A wild crazy thought came to me, this is the product of it. Review or don't, I'm easy either way. Just enjoy! And have fun!**

* * *

 **Chapter One**

The first thing she noticed was the scent of wet grass drying in the warm sun of a late autumn afternoon. She knew it had to be autumn, because this down-home scent of grass mingled with the hearth and spice scent of the leaves.

Opening her eyes to the glaring sunlight, she squinted immediately and closed them against the burn, shielding her eyes once more with her hand, before cracking them open only a little and trying once more to get her bearings.

It was funny, she couldn't recall lying there in the grass and the sun, but she couldn't recall why she wouldn't be enjoying such a pleasant day.

Slowly, as though she had woken from a ten day slumber, she roused herself, sitting up, drawing her knees to her chest and peeking about cautiously, still mindful of the intensity of the sun.

The meadow around her was glorious, sun streamed golden through the fiery birch trees, while yellow leaves drifted down from their rushing branches. Before her spread a green field, with grass so lush and deep, it could easily be mistaken for green water rippling in the breeze.

It was strange to her, a niggling in the back of her mind that the trees were deep into fall, but the field before her was rich in the bosom of summer. But again, she couldn't recall when it wasn't like that. This was normal, she felt.

Enjoying the day for a moment, gathering herself, she put to memory every sensation of the day, from the sound of the leaves in the trees, whispering on the breeze, to the way the light glinted off the damp, shining yellow leaves as they fell.

From the depths of the stand of birch a deer strode forward, silent as a spectre, graceful as a queen, moving across her line of vision boldly, unafraid of her.

Shielding her eyes once more, she gazed after the creature, admiring how beautiful it was, how dainty it strode across the field.

An image, a flash of a darker, dirtier time came unbidden to her and she jerked back into the grass at how harsh the vision seemed. It was…gritty and felt like a view of hell.

Lying on the grass, brown hair tousled, white lace day-dress askew, she stared up at the blue sky above and focused on the image, but it was gone. All she could recall was a man standing at the end of a long, dark hall and a feeling of being utterly exhausted. Tired.

Tired?

She didn't think such a feeling was possible here. This meadow, that birch stand, they weren't the place for being tired.

A name came to her then.

Margaret.

She parted her berry red lips and tried the word on her tongue, tasting it, savouring it.

"Margaret," she murmured.

 _Margaret._ The trees seemed to sigh back.

"Margaret."

She sat up and whipped her head around.

The voice had seemed to be coming from right behind her, but there was no one there. No other living creature.

That voice.

Was it her own?

No.

But she felt it was intimate to her. That it was a voice she knew well.

A thought came to her then. She didn't know herself.

Who was she? Was she Margaret?

Another scene danced around her, only it wasn't so dark as the first, this scene was illuminated in golden hues, soft light dancing in the shining eyes of another man. These eyes weren't the cold blue of the first man, but a gentle hazel, crinkled in the corners from years of mirth.

If hell were the first vision she had, then this vision was heaven. It was much warmer, less aggressive and full of a gentility that she found in the trees and the field around her.

"Margaret."

She sat up again and drew her knees to her chest, trying to place the voice. But she knew no one. As far as her memory served, no one else existed, but her.

High overhead a black dot emerged from the blue and the clouds, circling and swooping, a croaking squawk coming from the bird as it circled down and down, closer to her.

It stood black as India ink against the bright sky and seemed to be moving at a tremendous speed, closer and closer to her.

At the last minute, before it could crash into her it swooped back up and veered off sharply, flying behind a bush on a hill across the field from her and into the shadows.

It was only then that she noticed a figure on the hill, standing still and quiet. Was it the raven? It stood as black as the bird's sooty feathers.

Once more shielding her eyes from the sunlight, she peered at the figure. It didn't scare her, but somehow calmed her. She didn't worry much anymore about not knowing anyone.

From the sky, much like the raven, the faint tingle of a song trickled down, softly at first and then growing to a comfortable tone.

 _You're the cream in my coffee, you're the salt in my stew. You will always be my necessity. I'd be lost without you. You're the starch in my collar, you're the lace in my shoe. You will always be my necessity. I'd be lost without you._

She got to her feet slowly then, rising for the first time and standing in the breeze. The leaves fluttering down around her like rain, the trees whispering to her urgently, telling her to move.

It was time.

Wading out into the deep grass, she smiled at the cool feeling on her bare feet, crossing the field, heading for the figure.

The closer she got to the creature, the smaller it seemed, until finally she approached a raven once more. It hopped around to face her and fluttered its wings.

Dark feathers, black as coal dust, shone in the sunlight, glistened beautifully, seemed to distract her from her goal. The bird seemed bent on distracting her.

Reaching out, she touched the bird with trembling fingers and smiled as it turned its head and preened, before it straightened up and stood almost arrogantly, sly eye on her.

It was a handsome bird and she could tell it had secrets.

Margaret continued to stroke and pet the bird, wanting to learn his secrets. For surely, something inside her told her than it was a he and that he was just dying to share.

She had felt like she had seen that look before, like this bird with his sly eyes and his secrets was a friend, someone she had known.

And then it reached up and snagged one of her wayward curls with his beak and tugged almost playfully and it started a memory playing out before her eyes, encompassing her, putting her right in the middle of the scene.

A hand, reaching out to tuck her hair back into her gentle waves, a finger curling the strand around, twisting and wriggling, before a playful tug.

She remembered sly eyes and a roguish smile, teasing, playful.

The raven squawked at her, begging attention, bringing her back to that place. She stroked it again and it hopped away, before fluttering off.

Margaret watched it soar high into the sky, before it swooped back, it circled and circled and almost begged her to follow it.

She gathered her lacy white skirt about her knees and tread after it, heading back towards the birch stand.

Walking through the leafy forest floor, she was pleased to find nothing that hurt her bare feet, no branches or stones. It was actually a very pleasant walk. Every now and then the raven would land in a tree and shriek at her, coaxing her in the right direction.

Eventually she pushed through the trees and came upon a dirt road, rutted out and beaten smooth, with wild grass growing high in the middle between the ruts and brown eyed Susan's growing along the way.

The raven had landed on the road and hopped a ways from her, before stopping and peering back, before he took flight once more.

Margaret watched the skies through the arch of trees that covered the road for the raven to return, but he did not. She waited for a few moments, before sadly making her way on her own.

As she walked she noticed that there were no more other creatures to be seen, only her and the road and the rushing of the trees overhead.

Eventually as she walked, she came upon a crossroads, where a little boy sat huddled up at the base of a tree, his knees tucked to his chest, his face buried in them.

The closer she got, the more pitiful sobbing she could hear coming from deep within the boy's chest.

"What's wrong, little darling?" She cooed to the boy, kneeling before him.

The child looked up and she was hit instantly with another memory, she was older in this dim hell, seated in a wheelchair, clutching a bouquet of white lilies.

"Teddy?" She gasped.

Her son. Her boy, but…he had died. Heart attack.

This child before her was young still, just as…she remembered him best.

"Mama," he murmured and jabbed angrily at his eyes, standing up.

She smiled and held out her hand. "Why are you crying, my love?"

"I can't find him," he whispered apologetically, taking her hand and wandering off with her on the journey. "I put him down for only a little while and he's gone."

"Who, my darling?"

"He doesn't have a name."

"We'll find him," she assured the boy.

They walked as though they had never been separated, wandering down the road hand in hand.

"When were you happiest, mama?" Teddy asked as they strolled down the road.

"Happiest?"

"I was happiest at Christmas. Remember that one year? And I got a sled and skates," he said.

She remembered that. It wasn't a complete memory, she couldn't recall a date or a time, the faces there with her were vague and shadowed. But she remembered the moment. Teddy's excitement, the sparkle of the lights on the tree, the glitter of the snow at the window.

"I don't know, my darling," she replied after a moment. If she couldn't remember anything, then how could she answer that question?

When was she happiest?

 _Happiness, Miss Rohan, is an illusion. It's here and gone._

Her footsteps faltered. Was that voice in her head? Was it all around them? Was it a memory? One without a face and a scene laid out before her?

A cry, the wail of a small child stopped her again in her tracks and she frowned at the trees to her right.

Teddy tore off first, diving into the birches. "It's him!"

She followed slowly, unsure about who this 'him' was.

The crying tore at her heart and she began to walk faster, heading after Teddy, struggling to keep up with the small boy.

Finally she found them both, Teddy stooped over a wee bundle that cried at the sky above.

Margaret knelt and smiled down at the red faced babe, scooping him up and holding him instantly to her breast.

The memory that surrounded her then was one of pain and loss and she felt tears immediately spring to her eyes.

There she was on a hospital cot, beaten and bruised, sobbing softly so as not to wake the other patients around her.

This one was lost to her, taken, ripped from her womb.

He was so small.

Clutching the boy tighter to her, the hospital melted away and she once more stood in the forest with Teddy at her side.

Glancing around, she was mildly panicked at losing the road, but it was only then that she spied the raven, hopping on the ground nearby, one sly eye on them.

"Come along, Teddy," she said, heading after the bird, her son at her heels.

They found the road once more with the ravens help and were again on their way. She didn't know their destination, didn't really feel like she had one. But with her lost son in her arms and Teddy nearby, she didn't care much.

They walked the road for a while. Time didn't seem to matter, it had no meaning to her here. Did it ever have meaning?

She couldn't remember.

As they walked, she began to notice that the trees turned from birch into a mix of pine and birch as though they were approaching a river or some water of sorts.

Suddenly the trees parted and she found they were at the beginning of a long, beautiful steel arch bridge, below was a calm river, but it wasn't the river that caught her attention, but a single figure that stood in the centre of the bridge, still as a statue.

She wasn't frightened, instead she was almost excited. Something told her she wanted to meet up with this figure.

Margaret stepped out onto the wooden planks of the bridge and began her journey across, Teddy clinging to her skirt, her unnamed son quiet and happy in her arms.

The closer she drew to the form, the more eager she seemed to get. The feeling of reuniting with an old friend came over her and she smiled a little.

Drawing nearer, she recognized the form as a man, who stood in a bright blue camel hair driving coat, hands clasped before him, his dark Homburg covering his face from her sight.

Margaret approached slowly, taking small neat steps until she stood before the man.

"Miss Rohan," the man said, finally looking up at her from under the brim of his hat.

A flood of memories came back to her, much too fast for her to catch any. They slipped past her like water through her fingers. Still she smiled almost happily because what she did catch from those memories was that he wasn't a threat. "Mr. Rothstein."

The man eyed her son at her side, then the child in her arms, before he offered her a small, tight smile. "What a random happenstance."

"Is it?" She asked. "Where are we?"

He glanced around them for a moment, and turned back to her with a more relaxed smile, holding out his hand to her.

Shifting her son to rest on one arm, she held out her free hand to him and he trapped it between both of his gently, still smiling.

"I've never been one to favour the excitement of being the bearer of bad news, Miss Rohan," he said, lightly tapping the top of her hand with his. "However, it is best to get the bad news over with firstly, yes?"

"Bad news?"

"The only reason you could be here," he said simply. "Is if you passed on."

"Passed on?" She repeated.

The raven landed on the railing of the bridge at Mr. Rothstein's right hand and screeched loudly. Below her the water rushed, the clouds drifted languidly above, her son wriggled in her arms and Teddy shifted at her heel.

"Deceased," he said gently.

Dead. Margaret thought about that.

She didn't fully understand the meaning of 'dead' so it didn't affect her. She knew the word, but she didn't fully comprehend. It was almost as though it had no meaning to her anymore. There was no death or loss.

"I'm dead?" She repeated, tugging her hand back from Mr. Rothstein.

Memories flooded into her brain. Dead. Death. Dying.

She could recall the newspaper print, the words 'Rothstein, Gambler, Mysteriously Shot; Refuses to Talk'.

"Critically wounded," she murmured, that feeling of heaviness settling in her stomach just as it had when she read that headline.

Dead. He was dead. He had died.

She frowned at the raven beside them and asked. "Is this heaven?"

"I'm sure myself and my associates are not the sort to get a free pass into such a place as heaven," Mr. Rothstein said. "Unless God is far more generous than we've all taken to assuming."

"Is there a God?" She demanded suddenly, memories of the bible and church and all things she learned as a child came to her.

Mr. Rothstein smiled. "I'm…not on his guestlist if there is."

"Then is this hell?"

"From what I gather from the Christian belief in Hell, there is a lot less fire than one would imagine," he replied. "It's quite pleasant here, actually."

"Then…where are we?"

"I'm not a theologian, Miss Rohan. In fact, I'm not even certain I'm the one who was supposed to break this sort of news to you."

Above them the sky turned just a shade more violet than it had been and she took note of the sun.

"It feels so real," she remarked.


	2. Chapter Two

**Hey, to that one guest reviewer! Thanks for the review!**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

They were walking together now in comfortable silence.

Margaret's mind was working too much to hold a conversation and Mr. Rothstein was too busy going through a notebook he had drawn from out of his inner jacket pocket.

Teddy raced ahead of them, darting this way and that as children were wont to do when nature beckoned them as it was.

"Then, this is it? This is where we go when we die? Just aimlessly wandering?" She murmured, not really to anyone in particular, mostly musing to herself. Turning to the man at her side, she studied his profile as he dropped his head to his notebook. "Why were you on that bridge? For me?"

Mr. Rothstein looked at her calmly. He was always calm, even now in the land of death, he was calm. "Why were _you_ on that bridge, Miss Rohan? For me?" He repeated.

"Of course not!" She breathed, angling her face from him shyly.

"Mm," he returned idly.

They walked on.

Not once did Margaret neglect to notice the raven which had lead her from her meadow to the road, to the bridge and to Mr. Rothstein, for it flew overhead, circling and circling and circling, guiding them still, she felt.

"Then this is it, no heaven nor hell, no God?" She went on.

"You think you're upset, Miss Rohan, the World to Come is a great disappointment to myself as well. Though, this isn't so bad, is it? It's peaceful here, the sun is setting as on Earth and…there's certainly _a_ bird in the sky."

"But just…aimless wandering? Seems lonesome."

"Lonesome," he repeated with a light tone and a glint in his eye. "Yes, I imagine you are all alone here. But," he pointed out. "Have you noticed, we are not getting tired at all, though we've been wandering for a while?"

"Yes."

They walked on some more, entering into a shaded area where the trees once more stretched over the road.

"You remember dying," she remarked.

"A man shoots you, you tend to expect it," he returned, tucking his notebook away. "I languished for a little time, I recall."

She stopped short as a memory came, surrounding her.

That dim world she once lived in encompassed her. There she was, kneeling by her bed, crying softly, a newspaper clutched in her hand. Glancing up, she was startled to see Mr. Rothstein standing there beside her, joining her in the memory, eyeing her weeping form with studious, sharp eyes.

"I cried," she explained unnecessarily. "When you passed away."

"You were most likely the only one," he returned with a small, almost proud smirk. "Poor woman."

Margaret approached the weeping figure of herself, amazed at how long this memory was lasting, amazed that she could take it in slowly. Kneeling, gazed in amazement at herself, hair pinned up, face painted prettily with rouge.

"You meant something to me," she whispered. "What was it?" Looking up at Mr. Rothstein, she found him writing in his notebook once more with a stubby pencil. "Were we married?"

His smug grin died and he frowned a little in thought. "I can't recall. I was married, but this place isn't really bringing any memories back for me." He tucked his notebook away and stepped forward, arms out for the baby she held. "Here, let me hold him while you recollect."

She handed her son over to the man and turned her eyes eagerly back on herself.

Reaching out, she moved to touch her hair, only to find her hand passing right through.

"Ghosts," she murmured sadly.

Around them the scene faded and they were once more in the middle of the tree lined road, Margaret kneeling in the middle.

"I hope that doesn't happen often," he said. "It's very awkward and uncomfortable."

She smiled softly. "You have a hard time witnessing my memories?"

"I have a hard time seeing women cry," he replied simply. "Hardly worth the sorrow, if you ask me."

Taking her son back, she said simply, "I didn't seem to think so."

They walked on, heading for nowhere, coming from nothing, it seemed.

"You have to mean something to me," she remarked. "Why else would we end up here together?"

He inhaled deeply. "I called you Miss Rohan upon greeting you, you called me Mr. Rothstein."

"Yes."

"We're not married, but you have children and you're a 'Miss'."

"Yes."

"Maybe you were my mistress?"

"You don't recall my bedroom, wouldn't you think a man would recall such a place as his mistress's bedroom?"

"We used a hotel?"

Margaret smiled shyly, unable to meet his eyes. "I don't think we were involved romantically."

"And yet, you wept for me?"

"Perhaps it was an unrequited love?" She suggested, feeling her cheeks burn, hoping her long hair covered her embarrassment.

"Perhaps you're just a kind woman," he suggested. "Who felt things greatly?"

A thought came to her and she asked, "do you remember Teddy?"

Mr. Rothstein paused beside her and pondered that. "I do, but…there was another child."

Margaret frowned, looking down at her unnamed son in her arms. And then a name came to her. "Emily!"

"She had…braces on her legs," he went on.

"Yes! Polio! She had polio! Oh, but she isn't here!"

"She may not have passed yet," Mr. Rothstein suggested.

"Oh, she's alone in the world! It's such a dark place!" Margaret lamented.

Before she could mourn her daughter further they were thrust into another memory, but from the way Mr. Rothstein's spine straightened and his already wan pallor paled, she could tell it wasn't one of hers.

They were in a parlour, hers she could recall, on a davenport sat Mr. Rothstein, a small, sweet girl with brown curls and leg braces sat on his knees crossways.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Rothstein," Margaret said, moving right through her, holding a tray of tea. "Emily, don't bother him!" She said softly to her daughter.

Mr. Rothstein smiled warmly. "It's fine, Miss Rohan, we're old friends. Aren't we?" He asked her daughter.

Margaret looked over at the man who was her ethereal companion and noticed his face was held tightly, as though he were turning to stone before her very eyes.

"We were just discussing horses," the dark world Mr. Rothstein went on kindly. "We're both very big fans of the creatures."

Margaret watched as the other her set the tray down with placating smile at the two in the room, before wandering back into the kitchen.

"Mr. Rothstein?" Emily asked as her mother left the room.

"Yes, darling?"

"Are you our new papa?"

Glancing over at her Rothstein, Margaret found him clenching his jaw, but otherwise he stood marmoreal, like some great ancient statue.

"No, I'm not," the spectre before them said.

Emily laid her head and hand against his chest and sighed. "I wish you were."

The memory faded and they were once more on the road.

For a moment both stood still and silent, Teddy watching the scene calmly, standing behind his mother.

"My daughter loved you," Margaret said finally.

"Children love easily," he replied simply. "Shall we?"

They walked on in silence.

It was different than before, however.

Margaret was mulling over her relationship with Mr. Rothstein and the man was almost sullen and stewing.

She didn't know why. Anyone would welcome the love of a child.

It couldn't have been that. It had to be more, something akin to regret, perhaps.

"It'll be dark soon," Mr. Rothstein remarked after a long time of silence. "We should find somewhere to rest?"

Margaret smiled softly. "I'm not tired."

"Nor am I, but we can't walk in the darkness," he suggested.

"I haven't seen any buildings at all," she said. "Only the bridge." As she said this, the trees gave way to a wide open field, where a bungalow stood stark on a hillside.

Teddy immediately clutched at her skirt.

Margaret's heart stopped cold and still in her breast. "No." She murmured.

"What a weather-beaten little shack," Mr. Rothstein said with something akin to disgust, though he maintained his politesse.

"It was our home," Margaret whispered, her feet refused to carry them closer to it. Even from where she stood she could hear the screams and the crying and the violence.

Was it in her head? Mr. Rothstein didn't seem to react to the noise, but Teddy was terrified, holding close to her.

"This isn't a memory," she declared suddenly, very aware that all around them were the beautiful trees and waving grass of the afterworld. Margaret took a few frightened steps back and slammed into a solid wall behind her.

She gasped in fright and spun around.

A dark world demon stood there, breath reeking of liquor, face a deceptively calm mask.

"I missed you, sweetheart," Hans purred gently, swaying with the drink that had gone to his head.

Tightening her arms around the baby she had lost, suddenly aware of why and how she lost the child, Margaret felt absolute terror freeze her.

Hans raised a hand to her cheek, stroking it with his knuckles. "Let's go home." He whispered.

Unable to take her eyes from Hans for fear of him getting her when she wasn't looking, Margaret hoped Mr. Rothstein was still there. He'd surely protect her, wouldn't he?

"Who is this?"

That soft, well-spoken tone was a comfort to her and she exhaled shakily.

"I'm her husband, who the hell are you?" Hans demanded.

"Her lover," Mr. Rothstein said simply. "I think."

Margaret tensed. Why would he say that? Of all things to say to Hans? She felt betrayed.

Hans scoffed and grabbed her hair hard, pulling it.

It hurt! There shouldn't be pain. But this hurt and it hurt more than anything she could recall.

"This church-mouse? She wouldn't dare!" Hans growled.

"Well, not that it's any of your business," Mr. Rothstein returned, clasping his hands before him.

Tears welled and fell from her eyes at the pain of having her hair pulled so sharply, from the betrayal by Mr. Rothstein.

"Are you a betting man, sir?" Mr. Rothstein asked politely.

"Sure," Hans replied, for the moment forgetting about Margaret clutched in his hand.

"I'm a gambler myself, bet on a little bit of everything. Funny story, true story actually," he went on. "I attended a fight at a New York boxing club once between two light-weight champions. Ever been hit below the waist, sir?"

Margaret's eyes met Mr. Rothstein's only briefly, but he went on smoothly.

There was a meaning in that look, she was sure of it, but she didn't know what it was for.

"Of course not," Hans returned with a sniff. "I ain't ever been touched in a fight."

Mr. Rothstein tilted his head. "I'm sure it's because you pick your opponents to match your abilities, sir," he replied with a small grin. "See, in this fight, the one fellow, Irishman named O'Toole, got knocked just where it matters most, below the waist. And it appeared to wind him enough to get him to drop his guard. Now any other person would consider this a dirty fight, punching a man _there_ ," Mr. Rothstein made quick eye contact with Margaret again, before his pointed look shifted to the area below Hans pants button.

Margaret suddenly realized what he was getting at.

"Of course, he was hit quite hard with a good solid fist," Mr. Rothstein went on. "It really seemed to hurt the poor fellow and once his guard was dropped this other man, fellow named Bell, knocked him in the face with a solid right jab. It was the only illegal knock out fight I ever bet on. And won, I recall."

As he told his story, the grip Hans had on Margaret's hair loosened.

She looked at the wailing baby in her arms, shifting him slowly so as not to draw attention to them, before balling up her left fist. She had to make it count, because if she missed, Hans would tear her apart for even trying, but…Mr. Rothstein was there. He seemed to be helping. He surely wouldn't let Hans get at her.

What did she have to lose?

Swallowing thickly, she inhaled and then struck.

Amazingly Hans released her and doubled over almost instantly.

Margaret wasn't sure what really got into her, but with Hans doubled over, she felt a demon sort of take over her body and it lashed out with her knee, right in his face. Hans fell backwards and the demon in her gave him one solid, final kick to the ribs, before Margaret regained control of herself and scurried over, holding her unnamed son and Teddy's hand.

She scurried behind Mr. Rothstein a little and watched as Hans sort of faded away like he was only a memory.

"That was wholly uncalled for, Miss Rohan," Mr. Rothstein teased with a small click of his tongue.

When she said nothing, he turned around, eyes shining and kind. "Are you well?"

She nodded.

"Oh look," he exclaimed, turning his body to face the bungalow. "It's much nicer now."

Turning around, following his gesturing hand, she found her shoddy bungalow replaced by a pretty cottage surrounded by flowers.

"Well, it's not Buckingham Palace," he amended, gingerly placing his hand on her lower back and guiding them all towards the building. "But any port in a storm."

Margaret couldn't help but take another, cautious look over her shoulder, still worried about Hans coming back. The spot where he had fallen was empty, save for the raven, who hopped along in the grass. One sly eye on her.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

She settled her sons in a bed together, tucking pillows around her infant boy, ensuring he was safely nestled beside his brother.

The poor boy needed a name, she supposed.

Stroking Teddy's hair out of his eyes, she smiled down at her little boy and arranged his blankets.

"Mama, how long until Emily comes?" Her son asked softly.

"I'm not sure, my darling."

"Will we always be together?" He went on questioning.

"For as long as I can help it, my darling. We'll never be apart."

"Even Mr. Rothstein?"

"I'm not positive about him," she admitted. "Why do you ask?"

"Because he's all alone."

Margaret pat her son on the chest soothingly. "I wouldn't worry about him, my darling. I think he's going be just fine."

"But I always see him alone," Teddy said innocently.

"When do you see him, darling?"

Teddy looked guilty, like a child who said something they felt would get them in trouble. He shrugged.

"Teddy? When do you see him?"

Her son was quiet.

"I'm not angry, my darling, but have you seen him here? Have you been here long?"

Teddy wasn't going to talk and Margaret sighed but kissed him on the forehead anyways.

"Well, goodnight then," she whispered to him.

"'night, mama."

Standing up from the bed, she made her way across the cottage towards where Mr. Rothstein had seated himself by the fireplace, pausing briefly at the window to peer out at the moonless night, worried that somewhere out there Hans lingered in wait.

His dark, dramatic brows were lowered gravely, his pale skin illuminated, cast in aged gold by the candlelight.

"Are you tired at all?" She asked him.

"No," he returned.

Perching on the raised hearth of the fireplace, a memory came unbidden to her and surrounded them both.

At her feet a small child with beautiful mahogany curls played in the ash of the hearth, drawing little things on the stones.

"Girl, stop playing in the ash!" Someone scolded.

Margaret and Mr. Rothstein both watched as a man came out from the other room and swatted the girl's head lightly, chasing her from the hearth. "Now go outside and play, go!"

"That's my father," she explained to Mr. Rothstein. Not that she needed to explain it to him, but he was there in her memory, so she felt it would be rude not to point out to him who this man was. And then the memory completely came back to her and she smiled. "Oh! I remember this!"

She eagerly followed her younger self out the door and into the gooey grey haze of an Irish day.

To her amazement, Mr. Rothstein followed quietly.

"I found this dog, she was wandering the hills," Margaret explained eagerly. "It was the one thing my da had given me. He allowed me to keep her."

Sure enough, as they followed young Margaret, the girl came upon a pitiful looking shaggy shepherd dog.

"I called her Rosie," Margaret murmured happily. "I wonder if she's here with us?"

Turning to Mr. Rothstein as the memory faded, she frowned. "If my sons are here and you're here, then…where is everyone else? My father, my…family? Was I married to anyone other than…Hans?"

"You seem to think I know more than I'm letting on, Miss Rohan."

"You remembered being a gambler," she confessed, recalling earlier that day.

"Yes," he said.

"Have you been here long?" She asked.

"What's long? This place doesn't seem to really measure time." He replied.

Margaret frowned.

"I'd like some tea," Mr. Rothstein said then. "Would you care for a cup?"

Absently, she nodded, her mind she pondering over what her son had said earlier. Something about it was odd. She was about head for the kettle to make some tea, but found Mr. Rothstein already there getting everything going.

"I can make the tea," she offered.

"I wanted the tea," he remarked. "It may not be a strong cup of Irish brew," he teased. "But I most certainly can make tea."

She smiled at him and resumed her seat by the fire, enjoying the warmth, though she was not cold. This place, for the most part, was pleasant. Everything was made pleasant.

This was death, she mused. A place neither hot nor cold, rough nor soft, it was perfect contentment wrapped around a feeling of unease.

Still, why Mr. Rothstein of all people to walk through the afterlife with? There had to be a purpose to his presence. He must have meant something to her. And in that respect, she must have meant something to him.

But what?

She wished the memory that would unlock that would come to her, but it was the one she wanted most, the one that evaded her.

"Have you had many memories before I met with you?" She asked.

"Some," he admitted, measuring out the tea leaves into the steeper.

"Of me?"

"Not a single one," he returned.

Margaret wasn't disappointed, however, she merely stored that knowledge away.

"Mostly foolish childhood incidents." He moved around the kitchen and opened a cupboard, finding a beautiful chocolate cake there. Pulling it down, he smiled happily at her and asked. "Cake?"

"No, thank you," she said.

"More for me," he replied easily, flashing her a crooked grin.

"Well, maybe one small piece," she added slyly, wanting to see his reaction.

"I don't cut small pieces, Miss Rohan," he stated in all seriousness. "There's too much stinginess in life," he went on. "Cake should not be rationed."

The way his face lit up when talking about cake was so innocent and boyish, that Margaret found herself shyly looking everywhere but at him as he cut her a generous piece and slid it onto a plate.

She took the plate happily and thanked him.

It did look rather moist and delicious. Like everything about this funny afterworld, the cake was perfect.

Serving her a cup of tea as it was ready, Mr. Rothstein joined her once more by the fire and they shared in the joy of cake and tea by a perfectly warm fire.

"I must admit," he said after his first, blissful bite of cake. "I thought death would be different."

She was quiet, waiting for him to elaborate, still unable to fully look at him. Something about the firelight gave him a gentle, intimate look and it was hard for her to meet his gaze. It turned his cold, white marble complexion into a warm bronze.

"Of course I wasn't expecting anything really," he remarked. "I was told once, as a boy, a story, of what it would be like in – well, I suppose what you'd call heaven and hell – the story goes that in heaven and hell there are banquet tables, piled high with food, but no one can bend their elbows."

Margaret listened intently, amazed by the story, finally able to meet his gaze in her eagerness to hear the tale.

"And in hell the people starve, because they only think of themselves and therefore cannot eat. But in heaven they eat until they're full, for they feed each other." He finished.

She smiled softly. It hadn't occurred to her that he was of a different religion. Surely she knew it in the dark world, but here she was unaware that he was different. Didn't seem like it mattered so much here.

"What about you?" He asked. "What were you taught about the afterlife?"

Margaret swallowed the bite of cake she had in her mouth and inhaled deeply. "Sinners go to hell where they burn for eternity and people who live close to God go to heaven where they never feel pain or sorrow. And somewhere in between is purgatory, for the unwed mothers and children who aren't baptised."

"Well," he said, sipping his tea to wash down the two pieces of cake he had put away in the span it took her to finish one. "This place doesn't seem to coincide with either of our beliefs."

"No."

"So it's safe to say we're in some other religion's heaven," he teased.

Margaret laughed softly. "Blasphemy."

"I'm ready to meet mighty Zeus, how about you, Miss Rohan?" He went on playfully.

Covering her mouth as she was just finishing her cake, Margaret laughed. Swallowing, she said, "Mr. Rothstein!"

"We're already where we're going, Miss Rohan," he replied simply. "They can't take it back now, that's just bad for business."

"You're awful," she tsked.

"More cake?" He offered.

"Yes, thank you," she said.

Why not indulge a little? He had a point. Enjoy the afterlife, it couldn't get any worse.

* * *

Two miraculously appearing cakes and an entire pot of tea later and they were still sitting up, the fire still blazing comfortably in the field stone fireplace, the conversation never running low.

Margaret found she enjoyed Mr. Rothstein's mind, thoroughly enjoyed it. He was a smart man, and certainly, he seemed well aware of that fact, but it was because he was smart she found an equal of sorts.

Books she had read would come back to her as fleeting memories and they would discuss every book, holding it between them like something sacred, both admiring and analyzing it.

The more she talked, the more she found he was content to just sit and listen to her. It felt like a lifetime since she spoke so much, the words just sort of flowing out. Years of thoughts and ideas and feelings and theories on life and everything in it sort of came from within her.

And then a memory, like a reminder, came to her 'proper ladies do not ramble on'.

She held her tongue mid-topic and fell silent.

Mr. Rothstein quirked a dark brow, but waited patiently for her to continue. It was only when she didn't that he spoke, "did your mind wander?" He inquired playfully.

"I shouldn't speak so much," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, Miss Rohan, I was enjoying every minute of our talk."

She smiled sheepishly at her empty teacup. "I was monopolizing the conversation, I'm afraid."

"And where is the insult that you feel the need to apologize for?" He returned archly. "I would be disturbed if you hadn't a thought in your head, but that wasn't the case."

Margaret remained silent.

"Perhaps we were lovers in another time and place," he remarked suddenly.

She glanced up and caught his eyes. "What makes you say that?" She demanded, shocked and almost breathless with a sort of panic.

"I very much dislike to see you like this."

She bowed her head again. "Perhaps it's because you feel a sense of duty to me and a wont to protect?"

He beamed at his teacup as he raised it to his lips. "Who would feel such a thing but a lover?" He inquired after a moment.

"A husband, a brother, a father," she began listing off. "Uncle, cousin, grandfather…friend…?"

"We could be related," he said after a moment.

"No, Emily asked if you were her new father in the memory of yours," she argued. "I don't think we'd be related."

"Then I'm your…dentist?" He murmured. "I feel like I'm a dentist of sorts…?"

"I thought you were a gambler?" She inquired.

"Can't I be both? A man can't live on winnings alone," he returned.

"Do you know what you were?" She asked.

"Businessman," he said.

"And…?"

"A good landlord?" He tried.

"That can't be all, you seem…like none of those suit you."

"If I tell you what I really was, would you promise not to cluck your tongue at me? I can handle any criticism but that."

She smiled. "I promise."

"Well, I had my hand in every pot, I suppose. One of the things I did was keep the liquor flowing into New York City through a tiny little fecal speck on the earth called Atlantic City."

"Are you telling the truth?" She asked.

"Yes."

"Then, perhaps we were in business together?" She murmured.

Around them the scene shifted and they were immersed in a memory she knew belonged to the man at her side.

He sat at a desk before them, hands clasped over the ink blotter, face hard and unlike the warmth she was used to. Across from him, sitting between Margaret and the Mr. Rothstein she knew, was a small, lithe fellow with cold blue eyes and an equally hard look.

"Any other day, eh, Arnold?" The man asked in a rough, curt tone.

"Nucky, I have to admit, my resources here in New York are limited and if I could depend on any other supplier, I would. You've consistently let me down when it comes to orders I've placed."

"And none of those times have been my fault, Arnold. Let's not forget Jimmy's little fuck up that cost us both."

"One has to wonder, though, Nucky," the cold Arnold of the memory began. "Jimmy's yet living."

"And? He's not worth it, Arnold."

"Here's where we've always differed, Nucky. You run Atlantic City like one big parade. Me? I run New York like an army General. If one of my men is out of line, I make sure I put them back in their place. Otherwise chaos rules."

"Well, thank fucking God I'm not you, Arnold," Nucky growled sharply. "Because you live the life of a fucking monk."

Margaret felt a chill run up her spine as the Arnold Rothstein of the memory smiled, it was ominous and full of poisonous promise.

The memory faded and she turned a nervous, sort of tentative look on the man beside her.

He smiled a little jovially at the memory.

Before she could address this new and terrifying side of the man, they were immersed instantly in another memory and she knew it was hers.

"A trip to New York might be good for Teddy, see something outside of Atlantic City?" The Margaret of memory suggested to the cold eyed Nucky Thompson.

"Not this trip, Margaret." He said as he dressed for the day.

"You know he likes to spend time with you," Margaret urged. "He's a quiet boy, Nucky, why can't you take him with you?"

"Jesus Christ, Margaret," Nucky snarled. "Not this trip."

Margaret fell silent, sitting at her vanity, brushing her curls.

Sighing, Nucky turned to her.

"Some other time," he said. "I promise."

"It's only that, Teddy never sees his father anymore," Margaret explained. "I can handle you being gone so often, but he's only young."

"I promise," Nucky said. "After this trip I'll take him to the boardwalk, he can eat all the salt water taffy he can handle."

Margaret of the memory smiled, but even the Margaret who was dead could tell it was only to appease the crass man.

"Nucky Thompson," Mr. Rothstein drawled from beside her as the memory faded.

"Did you know he was my husband?" Margaret asked.

"No, I'm rather disappointed," he returned.

She glanced over at him and he smiled.

"I would have thought you to have better taste."

She tsked at his cruel joke.

Maybe he wasn't such a nice man after all.

Nucky seemed a giant step up from that demonic man-creature they had run into earlier that night.

Glancing beside her, she found Mr. Rothstein smiling at her and instantly forgave him. How could she stay angry at someone who looked at her that fondly?

She offered him a small grin in return and it bloomed a wide smile on his face.

Around them another memory swirled and they found themselves watching themselves over a softly lit late night treat of cake and tea.

"I've never done business with a woman before," Mr. Rothstein of the memory said.

"Well," Margaret's memory-self returned, taking furtive, nervous glances at the man. "How did you like it?"

"Quite the treat," both Mr. Rothstein's murmured.

Margaret glanced anxiously over at her afterlife companion and found him smiling fondly at the memory.

As the memory faded, she said, "so we were in business together?"

"It would appear so."

"Well," she breathed. "That's an interesting development."

"Quite remarkable really," Mr. Rothstein returned with a secretive little smirk.

"I think you were in love with me," she said softly, hoping he didn't notice the way her cheeks flushed pink.

"'Were' implies past tense," he replied casually, rising to his feet. "More tea?"

Margaret gawped after him for a moment, before glancing down at her hands, twisted tightly in her lap. She forced them apart and a smoothed her skirt, hoping he didn't notice how her cheeks were now flushed red.


	4. Chapter Four

**To the two followers of this story. Hey, what's up. Thanks for following me. I was going to give this story up as lost, so that second follower really pushed me into publishing this new chapter. Thanks for the follows, friends!**

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

They stopped for a moment by a beautiful stream in the clearing of a stand of apple trees, where Margaret settled to suckle her son.

She didn't need to feed him, she supposed. It was a land of death, there was no more suffering beyond it, but she liked the comfort and serenity, the closeness it brought her to her lost child.

"Oh all the money that e'er I had, I spent it in good company," she cooed softly to both her sons, as Teddy lingered at her feet, playing with smooth stream rocks. "And all the harm that e'er I've done, alas, it was to none but me. For all I've done for want of wit, to memory now I can't recall. So fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all."

Behind her she heard the rustling of leaves as Mr. Rothstein drew near.

He didn't come to close though and she paused singing to glance behind at him.

The man was quick to wave her attention back to her children, looking rather sheepish.

After a moment, she continued softer, trying to conceal her poor vocal skills from the man who was creeping ever closer by the sounds of the leaves beneath his shoes.

"Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had, they are sorry for my going away. And all the sweethearts that e'er I've had, they would wish me one more day to stay. But since it falls unto my lot, that I should rise and you should not. I'll gently rise and I'll softly call, good night and joy be with you all. Goodnight and joy be with you all."

The trees were still, even the stream seemed to draw to a stop as she finished singing.

There wasn't a single sound and then Mr. Rothstein shifted on his feet and inhaled deeply.

"Again," her companion urged quietly after clearing his throat. "Please?"

Margaret flushed pink. "I'm not very good," she said. "I only sing because the children like it."

There was more shifting of his shoes on the leaves, before his footsteps faded.

She glanced over her shoulder, worrying that she offended him.

The man had returned to his spot by the nearest tree and stood quietly.

Focusing her attention back on her boys, she found she couldn't sing, the lyrics wouldn't come to her if she thought she may have offended the man.

She stood up slowly and carefully approached him under his apple tree.

"Have I offended you, Mr. Rothstein, I—"

"Not at all," he said easily. "I intruded on a private moment and I'm hopelessly embarrassed about it."

She frowned, before her face lit up in understanding. "Oh! No, not at all! I didn't mean it like that! It's just that, I'm not very good at singing, I don't do it for people often. I suppose children are less critical, so I sing mostly to them." Looking to where she left Teddy playing in the leaves, she glanced back at her companion almost suggestively, before heading back to her perch on the banks of the stream.

Walking slowly, she hoped he would follow her, she wouldn't mind if he wanted to listen. She certainly hadn't meant to chase him off.

Crunching in the leaves told her that he was falling in behind her and she smiled a little, easing onto her stream bank.

Mr. Rothstein took up lounging against a boulder nearby, regally like a King as leisure, because of course that would be the pose the man took as he listened to her sing.

She began to sing again to her sons, this time a little louder for the man who had become her afterlife travelling companion.

They were walking once more.

She really didn't understand this urge in them to move, to journey across the land, but they were moving, heading towards the ongoing road. Eternity, she would say if she were poetic.

Beside her Mr. Rothstein walked, still in his heavy looking camel hair coat, looking layered and far too removed from the world around him, as though he were protecting himself from everything.

She glanced down at her bare feet and light, white lacy day dress and smiled.

"You're over dressed," she teased a little.

"Hm?"

She motioned to the differences in their dress.

"Well," he said. "We are outdoors, it's simply proper to overdress outdoors."

Margaret stopped suddenly as a flood of images crashed over her and she staggered back a little, Mr. Rothstein catching her politely, holding her up.

Time slipped past her rapidly, changes in style, fashion, dresses became shorter and women began to wear trousers, music, food, traditions, and manners.

She sagged heavily against her companion, then felt a suddenly tearing as though something was removed from her as the memories stopped and she found herself struggling to level her gaze at the road before them.

That which was taken from her with the rush of memories was her infant son and she would have wailed at the loss, had she not found the boy standing there before her, about two, just old enough to move on his own.

"Oh," she sighed.

"Are you well?" Mr. Rothstein asked.

"1985," she whispered. "I died in 1985. Things changed, fashions, everything. Television," she huffed.

"Television?" He repeated.

"There was…a man walked on the moon."

Mr. Rothstein chuckled, his exhale of air equivalent at least. "Walked on the moon?"

"Oh," she sighed and struggled back to her feet properly. Teddy ran towards her, he too looked a little older.

"You saw your death?" Mr. Rothstein asked, guiding her to a nearby log and easing her down on it.

"I saw my gravestone."

"Ah."

"So much changed," she whispered, eyeing her unnamed son quietly. After a long while of staring at the boy, she frowned and asked, "he needs a name, doesn't he?"

Mr. Rothstein was quiet, still stooped over her, hands on hers in her lap.

"What's a good boy's name?"

"I'd like to talk more about this man on the moon," her companion said with a sly grin.

Margaret smiled bashfully, very much aware of the soft brown gloved handed that covered hers. There was strength in them, but he didn't use any of it on her. Raising her eyes to meet his, she found him watching her with an amused expression and she dropped her gaze once more.

"I never had a name picked out for him," she said. "That I can remember. Maybe I'll name him Arnold," she added.

"Oh, I wouldn't. It's a dingy name for a very uninteresting sort of fellow."

She tsked at him.

"You should name him Harry," he suggested after a moment. "It's a good name for a man to have."

"Harry?" She repeated, eyeing the brown haired boy. "Yes. I like that."

Mr. Rothstein stood and stepped back, offering her his hand.

"Does the name mean something to you?" Margaret asked as she rose. Something in his eyes gave her the feeling it did.

"It was what we called my brother." He said.

"You loved him greatly?" She asked as they started walking again, her toddler son grasping for her skirt with one chubby pink hand, the other flailing out for Mr. Rothstein's pant leg.

The man beamed down at the child, amused by the small boy's efforts to steady himself between the two adults.

"He was a good boy," the man said finally. "Well-mannered and proper."

Margaret smiled. "You don't mind then?"

"Not at all," the man returned jovially. "I'm sure if he were here, he'd be quite honoured."

They walked on for a ways, before Mr. Rothstein declared.

"So, a man walked on the moon?"

Margaret laughed softly. "Well, he hopped on the moon."

"Hopped?" Her travelling companion fell into a thoughtful silence, before asking, "what else happened?"

"There was another war, a big one and after you died the economy collapsed, a lot of people were out of work, out of luck."

"And you?"

Margaret shook her head. "I can't remember…I think, we must have struggled for a bit. I remember a small, dirty home in upstate New York…working as a cook."

"Our business went bust, then?" He asked.

"I don't know, I still can't remember what sort of business we had together," she replied.

"I can tell you," a rough voice said from their left.

Margaret jumped a little as two men emerged from the tall cornfield, one was smoking a cigarette and looked quite stern with flat, sombre brows lowered over sharp, intense eyes, the other looked less threatening, but still mildly dangerous.

"For a fee, of course," the man finished with a small, charming grin.

"Charlie," Mr. Rothstein said then and beamed. "Meyer."

The two men smiled.

"Are you…really here?" Mr. Rothstein asked then.

"Sure we are," Charlie said. "Meyer and I got nowhere better to be. This place is bust though, ain't a good belt of whiskey or a slick cooze in sight."

Margaret hurried to cover Teddy's ears. Harry would forget, but Teddy would repeat and repeat.

Her son smiled anyways and looked up at her with a devilsh gleam in his eye.

She gave him a warning look that clearly stated he was not to repeat that word.

"Mrs. Thompson, isn't it?" Meyer asked.

Margaret frowned. "Yes, I believe so, at least, I remember being her at one time. I think?"

"Poor memories," Charlie said to the man. "But, hey, we can help."

"If there's no booze or women, Charlie, what do we pay you with for memories?" Mr. Rothstein inquired. "I'm assuming there's no money."

"Your souls," Charlie stated.

Margaret's spine straightened and she glanced over at Mr. Rothstein in a panic.

Was he serious?

"I'm just kidding you," Charlie finished with a grin, taking a deep drag from his cigarette.

"You remember everything?" Mr. Rothstein asked the man.

"Sure, Meyer and I walked to the end, figured big deal, so what? And now we just sort of…screw around in the woods."

"You've been to the end? There's an end?" Margaret asked.

It was Meyer who spoke. "The road eventually comes to an end, yes."

"What's at the end?"

"More roads," Charlie stated.

"Then how do you know it's the end?" Mr. Rothstein asked.

"Because it just is," Charlie began to get aggravated, shifting on his feet. "Look, I don't know anything about this pile of leaves and rocks, all I know is you walk with a partner or something to the end, there's a fork and…you take it?"

"We got the feeling at the end," Meyer broke in. "That we're not supposed to go together anymore, that it's just you after you take the fork."

"Yeah, then after that…who knows?" Charlie said. "You kiss the Holy Mother's feet you get into heaven, you slip her the tip and she drops you in hell. Meyer and I said to hell with it all and started back the way we came. This place is better than whatever they got planned for us down those roads. At least here we know what we're dealing with."

"We haven't figured out if there's actually a beginning," Meyer interjected. "There probably isn't."

"Well, there is, there has to be, but we ain't found it yet," Charlie said.

"So, you boys just wander around together?" Mr. Rothstein inquired.

Margaret looked from her travelling companion to Meyer and Charlie.

"So what?" Charlie shrugged. "Me and Meyer go way back. Old times."

"Meyer and I," Mr. Rothstein corrected.

"Meyer and you, what?" Charlie demanded.

Mr. Rothstein waved his hand as though erasing the topic. "Are you two meant to join us?"

Charlie's lips turned downwards. "Nah, we'll see you around though."

"Unless you go on," Meyer added.

"Unless you go on," Charlie repeated.

"Then good luck," Meyer said.

"What he said," Charlie grunted, sticking his cigarette in between his lips and pocketing his hands. "Unless you want to sell me your souls?"

"Charlie," Meyer scolded lightly.

The man beamed roguishly and winked at Margaret.


	5. Chapter Five

**Apologies in advance for the long chapter. There wasn't a part I felt comfortable breaking it up with...so...it's double the fun?  
**

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

The road cut through the very same cornfield Charlie and Meyer had come, the cornstalks growing high over their heads, though Margaret knew both her and Mr. Rothstein were neither one very tall.

Teddy and Harry wandered ahead, hand in hand and Margaret began to wonder about her sons. Were they real? As in her and Mr. Rothstein, as in Charlie and Meyer? Or were they wandering spectres of her memory like she hoped Hans was?

If that were the case, however, wouldn't Emily be there with them?

This place was so frustratingly confusing. It was beautiful and perfect, but it was madness.

If there was an end, then this place wasn't really the afterlife. If there was an end, then this place was a sort of 'in-between' a stopping point.

And still the questions tormented her. Why Mr. Rothstein? All the memories of him she had thus far equated to him being an acquaintance, a business partner at best.

He had to have been here long before her. His death, to her recollection had occurred in 1928, but she had lived on for a good many years, fifty-seven to be exact.

But time didn't move the same way here, she figured. Perhaps he didn't notice it passing?

Teddy had said something about him being alone. Was that here? Was he lonesome here before she arrived?

The man would never say. She got the feeling he was a vault. Silent as the grave.

Could he have been concealing something from her? A memory perhaps? One that spoke of their relationship or something about her?

Beside her the man was quiet, eyeing the surrounding cornstalks cautiously with a still and unemotional facade.

She supposed he was the epitome of the term 'poker face', for he never revealed too much. Was he as confused as her? Did he know about this place? Or was he just trying to gather it all together into a semblance of sanity like her?

Death was far more puzzling than she thought it would be.

Of course, she assumed it was a literal pearly gate with St. Peter waiting there to admit her into the wonder of heaven.

…or drop her into the fiery pits of hell, of course.

What if they were still to come?

Oh Lord, what if hell awaited her at the end?

What if heaven did?

From within the cornstalks as they walked a sound wafted on the breeze and Margaret actually had to pause to strain to hear it.

"What's that smell like fish, mama? Food, if you really wants to know." Someone sang off-key.

She glanced over at Mr. Rothstein who had also stopped and was listening.

"What's that smells like fish, baby? Food, if you really wants to know."

As her companion slowly started off in a direction, she followed, keeping behind him, allowing him to lead the way.

"Smell like sardines and it ain't in no can. Same doggone thing you chucked at the other man."

They parted a couple of large stalks of corn and found at their feet a young man, tied up and kneeling.

"What that smell like fish, mama? Food, if you really wants to know, I mean, Food, if you really want to know," he warbled, before noticing them and reeling back.

"Benny," Mr. Rothstein greeted coolly.

"Shit," the young man exclaimed. "AR!"

Margaret covered her son's ears, pulling both boys to her worriedly.

Arnold Rothstein inhaled deeply and drew himself to the fullest height he could. "Language, Benny."

"Oh yeah, no sorry," the young man smiled at Margaret. "I thought when you came skulking through the corn that you were Charlie or Meyer."

Mr. Rothstein smiled his plastic, placating smile. "Leave you here, did they?"

"Ah well, you know," Benny shrugged. "I'm surrounded by corn, so…" he trailed off, brows lowering as though he finally came to the conclusion. "They aren't coming back for me…"

"Odds would say no."

"Those fuckers!" Benny spat.

Margaret hurried to cover her sons' ears again.

"Can't trust a queer," Benny muttered angrily.

"Well," Margaret's travelling companion said. "We must be moving along, I suspect."

Struggling to his feet, Benny held out his bound hands imploringly to Mr. Rothstein, hopping a little on his bound feet, squirming and wriggling like a caterpillar trying to stand on a rose blossom. "Come on, AR. For old time's sake?"

The man eyed the rope that bound Benny's wrists with something akin to distaste, before tucking his hands behind his back. "I find it's unwise to invest myself in another man's business without some kind of reassurance of compensation should the investment fall through."

"What?" Benny demanded.

"Am I speaking Dutch suddenly?" Mr. Rothstein inquired in his soft, calm manner. "Miss Rohan?"

Feeling the need to help out, Margaret released her sons and stepped towards Benny. "Here," she said. "I'll help you loose."

"I may kiss you," Benny exhaled. Suddenly his head tilted and he asked, "aren't you Nucky Thompson's wife?"

She struggled with his bonds. "I am. Or…I was, rather."

"I thought so. You sure look like it," he remarked. "Of course I only saw you from really far away." Leaning in close to her, he whispered. "Whatcha got going on with the Bankroll?"

She felt her cheeks burn. "Nothing at all."

"Well," he went on loudly once more. "I'd keep you secret too. An artwork such as yourself shouldn't be open to the public for viewing."

Unsure if that was filthy or not, she cast a panicked look at Mr. Rothstein who had his head bent to his little notebook. He seemed to be scratching something into it with a stubby pencil.

"Benny," he warned distractedly without looking up or breaking his pace.

Releasing the man's wrists from the ropes, she stepped back with a small grin.

"Thanks," Benny returned, rubbing his wrists. "You're a real doll."

"Perhaps next time, Benny, you'll use your wits for something other than peacocking for the opposite sex?" Mr. Rothstein suggested.

"Hey," Benny objected, stooping to struggle with the ropes at his ankles. "Those two cornered me and Meyer sat on my chest while Charlie strung me up. It wasn't like I just sat down and let them wrap me up in hemp."

"Jesus, I told you we left him in here," someone said to Margaret's left.

She found Mr. Lansky and Mr. Luciano standing beside one another, both men eyeing Benny with mirth.

"Thanks," Benny growled.

"Hey, be thankful we came back for you," Mr. Luciano said. "I wanted to leave you. AR," the man greeted respectfully as they approached, with a somewhat wary glance at Margaret. "Hello again."

"Charlie, Meyer, I wasn't expecting to cross paths so soon."

Charlie scoffed. "Yeah well, Meyer wanted to find Benny. Saps got a soft spot for his little soft head."

"I was more worried about someone else having to put up with him," Meyer said.

"Aw, papa!" Benny exclaimed, opening his arms and approaching the shorter man.

Meyer scowled as Benny embraced him, his face more pained than angry. Like the boy's overly familiar manners were hurtful to him somehow. "Get off me, Benny. I swear to God."

Hooking his arms around both men's shoulders, Benny said. "So? What now?"

"Benny?" Charlie began, clapping the younger man on the cheek almost affectionately. "Ever wonder why we left you tied up in a cornfield?"

"I just assumed you two were going off into the woods to do some queer shit behind a tree," Benny remarked making a lewd gesture that had Margaret scrambling to cover her boys' eyes.

Charlie smacked him hard, still smiling.

"You'll have to forgive Benny, Miss Rohan," Meyer said. "He's an idiot. We think his father had relations with a goat."

"That's why I'm such a good climber," Benny stated, pocketing his hands. "Kind of reminds me of that poem 'there was a young woman on a boat, who had under one arm a goat—'."

"Benny," Charlie stated firmly.

The scene grew dark and Margaret inhaled sharply as it shifted and they all stood by the side of a beautiful bathtub full of merry bubbles and…Margaret, naked and barely covered by the bubbles.

"Oh no," she breathed.

Every man was still, shocked.

"So, this idiot climbs into the boat," Nucky was saying as he stood at the bathroom sink shaving. "Hides under a pile of netting and the goddamned boat sets off."

Margaret was unsure what she needed to focus on, this new memory or the men around her who were nervously shifting, Benny and Mr. Luciano unabashedly drinking her in, Mr. Lansky pointedly looking at Nucky, hands in his pockets and Mr. Rothstein looking very, very intently at his notebook.

"Oh, please stay in the water," she pleaded with herself softly.

"So now I have to go to Canada, I fucking hate Canada," Nucky went on.

Margaret kept her eyes on herself, gasping as she shifted in the water and one of her breasts popped up above the bubbles.

She wished she were yet living, so she could die again.

Benny knelt down by her in the tub and smiled broadly. "Looks so relaxing."

"Benny," Mr. Rothstein ordered sharply in a tone she had never heard the man.

The young man bounced up with a laugh. "Come on, AR, it's not like we have anywhere else to be and a free show is a free show."

She felt Charlie's eyes on her, looking her up and down subtly and she felt her entire body flush with embarrassment.

"Why are you in the bath?" Nucky demanded, turning from shaving. "It's nine in the morning."

"I'm achy," Margaret said.

The memory became clear to her then, she had gotten sick that week. Violently ill to the point where she was laid up in bed for a few days.

"Well, I won't be back for a week or two, I may stay up there and do a little business," Nucky said, approaching her and stooping to plant a kiss to the top of her head.

He left the room and the memory lingered just long enough for Margaret to panic, thinking she may yet be further embarrassed.

However, the dark world faded from around them.

Benny approached her slowly. "So, Nucky here with you or…?"

"Go," Charlie shoved the younger man into the corn. "Just go that way, we'll catch up."

The six of them listened to the rustling of the cornstalks as Benny wandered off for a moment, before Charlie cleared his throat.

"Sorry about him, AR," he said. "The kid's a nut."

"Hm?" The man muttered, finally lifting his head from his notebook.

"You remember, don't you, AR?" Charlie asked a little curiously, approaching the man warily. "Me and Meyer?"

"Meyer and you," Mr. Rothstein corrected idly. "Yes, of course."

"Everything?" Meyer asked.

The man who was travelling with Margaret levelled his gaze on both men, it was unreadable, as though he were nothing but a mere statue. "Everything, Meyer."

The two younger men exchanged a look, before Charlie said, "well, see you around, AR."

"Odds say you might not." Mr. Rothstein said simply, tucking his book and pencil away, offering Charlie a dry, insincere smile. "Goodbye, boys."

With that the man simply walked off through the corn.

Margaret lingered for a moment, before ushering her sons after the man.

Harry stopped short by Meyer and looked up at him, before reaching out a gooey toddler hand and grasping his pant leg. The man offered the child a dry, perfunctory grin.

Scooping up Harry, Margaret apologized and hurried off after Mr. Rothstein.

They had emerged from the corn, still and silent.

"You understand," he said after a moment of walking, "that you're under no obligation to walk with me, Miss Rohan."

She was quiet, glancing up at the raven overhead who seemed to be a constant, before speaking. "You're right."

They walked on.

If she had said she didn't care what had transpired between Mr. Rothstein and the other men, she would have been sent straight to hell as a liar. The truth was, it seemed to affect the untouchable man.

She didn't know that was a possible. He didn't seem human in some ways, and being affected by things was one of them.

His ivory skin had turned to an aged parchment and he looked sickly as he ambled beside her.

"I suppose we must deal with the dark world, good or bad," she said.

They walked on, still Mr. Rothstein was sullen and quiet.

"Do you remember Nucky and I together?" Margaret asked him, hoping to distract him from what she assumed was some kind of inner turmoil.

"I vaguely recall," he said.

"Was he…was he kind to me?" She went on questioning him.

"I can only say you seemed happy with him, but…you did leave him." He said.

"Yes," she replied, frowning hard, trying to grasp at the wet, oiled up memory that continuously evaded her.

She glanced over at him as they walked and wondered if he was still with her or whether he was still in that world of his own within his head. She wondered too, if he had seen any part of her from the memory of the bath.

There was only a shell of a hardened man who walked beside her as they moved through the woods, down the road, away from Misters Lansky and Luciano.

Mr. Rothstein seemed to have become forged in platinum, a cold, metallic man who moved mechanically and seemed stiff and robotic in his movements.

It seemed the further they drew from the other men, the more her companion became a solid creature, without flesh, without blood.

As they moved through a particularly dense area of woods, she kept her eyes on the man, worried for this change in him.

A memory came then, seeing him look so pale and cold, it reminded her of another time she had seen him so hardened.

"Is there nothing you can do?" She asked.

They stood in a dark room, lit only by a single light.

Margaret was terrified of the vision of Mr. Rothstein in the memory, he looked so unlike himself. Sure, he wore the same dapper suits and hats he always wore, but his face was cold, it was dead, it was hardened.

"Mr. Rothstein?" She whispered in her memory, small, strong hands clutching at his lapels and gently tugging him close. "You must say something."

"This is only a set-back," the man finally said.

It made her physically ill to see such a strong man look so vulnerable as his features shifted and the hard shell broke.

The Arnold Rothstein of her memory became like a small boy then, looking unsure, looking frail.

"You can't always be strong," Margaret whispered. "Let me in. Let me help?"

The man in the memory drew himself together with a deep breath and his solid mask was replaced. "Only a set-back. This happens often in business." He patted her hands and gently removed them from his lapels. "Now, go back to your warm bed. I should…I should go."

"Arnold—"

"Go now, you have work in the morning," he returned softly.

The memory faded suddenly, leaving Margaret and her sons standing beside a cold, hardened man who inhaled sharply and raised his chin.

There were no words that came to her, and even if she could find the words, she had no command of her tongue.

A pair of eyes watched from the woods and only when the figure shifted to their feet, did she notice them.

Benny stood up from where he was sitting comfortably against a tree and approached, standing taller than Rothstein, he stopped beside the man but didn't say a word.

Drawing her sons to her, Margaret began to panic as Mr. Rothstein remained still, worried that he had actually turned to stone.

Finally he levelled his chin and sniffed. "Benny?"

"Yeah?"

"What is that building over there?"

The young man frowned. "It's nothing."

Margaret glanced around and had to look hard before she spied it, almost hiding coyly behind the dense woods, peeking out just at the end of the road they were on.

Mr. Rothstein levelled the boy with a simple, calm look and Benny shifted uncomfortably under the gaze.

"Just ignore it, it's nothing," Benny insisted.

The older man blinked and remained passive.

"It's just this thing…just…it follows me around, alright?"

Mr. Rothstein tilted his head back a little.

"Look, it was after you kicked it, you know…just...it's just a thing."

"Looks like a…hotel?" Margaret supplied.

Benny smiled. "It is, thank you!" He ground out from between clenched teeth.

"And it…follows you around, Benny?" Arnold asked.

"It…" the man laughed. "Sure. Yeah."

"Like…Mr. Rothstein and myself go together or…Mister's Luciano and Lansky?" Margaret inquired.

"Okay, yeah! Sure, whatever! Look, let's just ignore it, okay? It's there, it'll always be there, just…let it exist over there." Benny pocketed his hands and scuffed the road with his shoe.

"You aren't even looking at it," the older man pointed.

"I don't need to," Benny insisted. "It's there."

They had fallen silent again, Mr. Rothstein deep in thought, Benny scuffing the dirt with his shoe and Margaret trying hard to figure out how it was she knew this young man. Or did she? He looked familiar.

Mr. Rothstein sniffed and looked down the road with sharp, studious eyes.

Scooping up Harry, Margaret then moved in closer to him, trying to see what it was he saw beyond the building.

But it wasn't the building he saw. His eyes weren't focused on anything.

"No."

Margaret and Benny exchanged looks at the single word uttered by Arnold Rothstein.

"No?" Margaret asked.

"I'm not going any further. There's no point."

She frowned. "But…the end?"

"No." He repeated simply.

Again Margaret and Benny looked at each other as Mr. Rothstein continued to gaze at the horizon.

"We have to keep on," she said.

"No we don't." He stated. "I'm not partaking in this farce any longer. I'm staying here."

"And doing what?" She inquired.

"I'll build New York up with my bare hands if I have to, get out of nature and back into the concrete world man was made to rule over." He said.

"Build New York?" Benny demanded.

"Someone has to," Mr. Rothstein said. "Unless you enjoy wandering corn fields forever?"

Benny shrugged. "Keeps that fucking hotel out of sight."

"Get Charlie and Meyer, Benny, I think it's time we all had a good talk," the man said.

Benny opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Mr. Rothstein gave him a simple, pointed look and the younger man slunk off.

Margaret was quiet, standing beside the man, holding her son.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" she asked.

Turning to face her, he was quiet, eyes taking her in, flickering to the children with her, before he reached out and touched his gloved hand just under her chin. It was a light touch, his fingertips barely grazed her flesh.

Then he dropped his hand and smiled.

"You don't have to remain with me, Miss Rohan. I don't expect you to," was all he said, before he turned his eyes back on the road that lay before them.

She stood beside him quietly.

"I don't think I can leave you." She said, it wasn't sentimental, but factual.

Damn the man for his unreadable features, for his stoic, expressionless manners, because at that moment, standing beside him, Margaret felt so left behind.

"I apologize then," he admitted finally. "If I cause you distress over this decision."

She waited, urging the powers that be to just reveal something about why she was with Mr. Rothstein. Why it was she felt so compelled to remain with him, even though the thought of never moving forward made her stomach churn.

"Do you recall the song you sang for your children?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"I had a memory before you arrived, of the other world, but…I was waiting, sitting down, it was quiet, save for that song."

Margaret was quiet.

But that seemed to be all the mysterious man was willing to part with as he glanced down at the road beneath their feet.

"If you remember that song," she said finally. "Then we must have been close, I can't recall ever singing for anyone who wasn't family."

Mr. Rothstein looked over and up at her then and it startled her, his eyes were soft and suddenly open and she felt that if she stared back at him long enough she would understand everything about him, that she could peer inside him.

"You want us, you don't," Charlie broke them up with his coarse velvet voice. "I'm beginning to feel like a goddamn yo-yo. What is it, AR?"

Mr. Rothstein blinked and looked away from Margaret, that mask he used to keep people away was already in place, a plastic grin worn on it. "There's nothing at the end of this road worthwhile, is there?"

"That road, this road, don't matter."

The older man ran his tongue across his back teeth in thought, the habit quirking a memory in Margaret's mind of him doing that often.

"I hate nature," he said finally.

"So?" Charlie demanded.

"So, we don't go any further."

Meyer and Charlie exchanged a look.

"AR's gonna build New York from twigs and leaves and shit," Benny stated.

"No, you dumb jerk," Charlie snarled. "AR's cooking something up."

Mr. Rothstein smiled broader. "We stay where we are."

"And?" Charlie demanded. "What? Become King's of the Corn? Jesus, I thought you had a-"

"Whatever we needed was always just over the horizon or through the woods," Meyer broke in, catching on quicker.

"We don't go any further," Mr. Rothstein stated. "I can't take anymore trees and rocks and dirt."

"We need a city," Meyer pointed out, sharing a grin with his mentor.

Mr. Luciano inhaled deeply from his cigarette, clearly mulling this over. "Alright," he said with a puff of smoke. "So we get ourselves a city. Then what?"

"You enjoyed the wandering?" Meyer asked him.

"We're gonna stir some shit, ain't we?" Benny demanded with a broad grin.

"There's no point reaching the end, boys," Mr. Rothstein said, clapping Meyer on the shoulder. "If there's no guarantee what's beyond it. This place is good enough."

Overhead Margaret heard the raven shriek almost disapprovingly and held her toddler son closer to her chest as a cold, unsettling feeling flooded her gut.

"We have to keep going," she said, that fear of not continuing returning to her.

"Why?" Mr. Rothstein inquired politely. "We could have it all here."

"It…seems unnatural," she said.

He smiled reassuringly at her and again touched her just under her chin. "If they wanted us at the end, they would have put us there. We have freewill here, we can do whatever we want. It's a blank slate, Miss Rohan. You can go on, if you want."

That still felt unnatural to her. It was almost as though they were meant to go on together. She felt as though, if she went on, she would only end up back with him.

So, she did what she felt she had done many times before. She kept quiet and accepted her fate.

"New York," Charlie murmured almost reverently.

"New York," Mr. Rothstein agreed.

"New fucking York!" Benny exclaimed with a whoop.

Only Meyer remained quiet, his eyes meeting Margaret's, before his pocketed his hands and shifted on his feet.

"We'll get some parlours going," Charlie said. "Free flowing booze, whores, jazz, dice. Who's gonna stop us this time?"

"We'll be Kings, boys," Mr. Rothstein returned, motioning them back towards the cornfield. "And what could be better?"

"We'll turn that piece of shit field into a majestic city skyline," Charlie agreed.

As the men stared at the potential of the forest to their left, Margaret clutched her boys to her nervously.

"Did you boys know about Benny's hotel?" Mr. Rothstein asked after a moment.

"That piece of shit is a casino too," Charlie exclaimed. "Did you fucking see it?"

"Okay, it's not that bad," Benny growled. "I poured a lot into that place…"

Margaret remained behind for a moment with Mr. Lansky, the two of them quiet. She sensed something about the man, something he was withholding. Not from her, but…there was a melancholy in his eyes as he watched Benny excitedly gaze at the field that pained even her.

Overhead the raven shrieked again, breaking her study of his sorrowful look and she glanced up at the sky.

"Let them have their fun," Mr. Lansky said softly. "They'll get bored eventually."

She nodded.

"It'll be okay, Miss Rohan," he added, offering her his arm.

She took it with her free hand, setting Harry down to toddle along beside her with his brother. They fell in behind the others, heading back for the cornfield.

Margaret took one last, worried look at the road, before resigning herself to whatever happened.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

Sure enough, Arnold Rothstein willed it and the world bended to his whims. As they all pushed back through the cornfield, and as the skies darkened into twilight, they stumbled out into the concrete world of New York. Or perhaps it wasn't exactly. At least, Margaret got the feeling it was _like_ New York City, but it wasn't the exact same city.

The men were pleased, eager eyes on the spirits and sprites that haunted the streets. Hollow eyed shadows of people, formed enough that they were much like them, but lacking in personal emotion and detailed facial features.

They were driven like automatons, moving through their daily lives like it was programmed into them.

Still barefoot, she moved along behind the men as they strolled the street, her sons clinging close to her legs.

Margaret couldn't see the raven anymore, there was no sight of it above her head and she clasped her hand to her chest worriedly.

"We'll split it two ways," Mr. Rothstein was saying. "Plenty of city for Meyer and yourself, enough for me."

"Let me guess," Charlie said. "You'll take uptown?"

Wondering if she could will something as grand as an entire city full of sprites, Margaret tried to will the city away, to make it vanish from before her, closing her eyes tight.

When she opened them, she found nothing changed. The city was still there around them full of the imitation of life.

"Nah, no deal," Charlie growled, dragging her attention back to the men in front of her. "You wanted us here, but we ain't taking anything less. We split the uptown and the downtown, fair."

"Charlie," Mr. Rothstein began in his soft, calm tone. "You boys do better with the hard working men and women. I can handle the politicians and debutantes better."

"So? What? We ain't got enough class for you, AR?" Charlie demanded. "You know what—"

Meyer stepped in calmly, restraining Charlie as the younger man took a swing at Mr. Rothstein.

The older man stood there, eyeing him calmly with furrowed brows.

"Charlie," Meyer said gently. "We can handle the downtown half. Yeah? Better than nothing, yes?"

"Charlie," Mr. Rothstein said. "I brought you boys in on this thinking you'd be interested, you really shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth."

Margaret held her sons to her, Benny moving to stand beside her as Charlie turned a shade of red that foretold of blood about to spill.

"Fine," Charlie said after a moment, shrugging Meyer off him and adjusting his jacket. "We'll take downtown. Good luck with your bean eating snobs, AR. We'll be with our own kind."

"Charlie," Mr. Rothstein began softly. "Don't be impetuous. I merely thought you'd prefer the downtown. You're more equipped to know what they'd like in terms of entertainment and alcohol."

"Yeah, sure, AR," Charlie said with a sniff. "I understand."

"I don't think you do," Arnold said.

"No, I do. You still think of me as that punk kid you pulled out of the gutter, I get it!"

"Start small, Charlie."

"I did!" Charlie growled. "I built an empire that lasted long after you bought it! I was on top after years of working underneath you as a bottom feeder! I worked hard! But fine! We'll take downtown!"

"If it means that much to you, Charlie," Arnold began. "You could always leave the city and start your own."

"No," Charlie growled. "We'll take our downtown shithole and we'll see who runs their half better."

Deciding her sons saw enough fighting for one day, Margaret stepped forward as Arnold opened his mouth to say something she was sure was condescending. She reached across his chest and grasped his upper arm, saying politely to Charlie.

"Fine, that's fine. You take downtown and Mr. Rothstein will take uptown. Everyone gets a share."

Arnold Rothstein eyed her arm, set across his chest with a quirked brow and a displeased look, but thankfully remained quiet.

Meyer did the same with Charlie, pushing his companion in the direction they were meant to go. "We'll take it, thank you, AR."

Realizing she should probably remain with her own road companion, Margaret smiled at Meyer as the man turned to follow Charlie, before she turned to Benny questioningly.

The young man raised his hands. "Shit no! I ain't picking a dog in this fight! I'll be in the Flamingo."

Watching the younger men as they went their own ways, Margaret turned to Mr. Rothstein, who was still staring disapprovingly at her arm.

"I suppose you'll be staying with me?" He inquired politely then, stepping away from her touch and turning on his heel, heading for what she assumed was their half of the city.

She followed, her sons in tow. "I suppose so. But I won't intrude. I'll set myself up with my sons."

"Nonsense," he said. "We may as well stay close together in the event we need to find one another."

"I won't be a burden," she insisted. "We can find our own place. I'm sure the city is ripe for us to pick lodgings."

He offered her his arm. "You won't be a burden," he insisted. "I like the company. Please?"

She took his arm, ensuring her boys were with her as they set off.

"My apologies for Charlie's temper," he said as they strolled the city.

"He had every right," she stated. "You were condescending to him."

"That was not my intention," he returned after a thoughtful moment.

Margaret eyed a sprite as it passed them. She wore everything right for the time and place, but her face was blurry, frightening a little and she didn't blame her sons for moving in closer to their mother's hip.

"This place isn't right," she murmured.

"Well, it isn't the world we left behind," he said, tipping his hat to another sprite who passed by them. "Good evening," he greeted.

The sprite paused long enough to return the greeting in a voice that sounded like someone drowning from far away down a long tunnel.

Margaret pressed in closer to Mr. Rothstein at the horror of the thing.

He smiled, delighted by it all.

"Good," he murmured as they carried on. "I won't have to put up with mindless patter from them at least."

Looking down at Harry who struggled to keep up, Mr. Rothstein smiled and said, "come here, young man, you're lagging behind."

The boy stepped towards him and the man hoisted him up easily, smiling at him.

Margaret took Teddy's hand and they walked towards the midst of uptown.

* * *

They just sort of house shopped as they strolled, which seemed funny to her, but at the same time she had to admit she had fun.

Mr. Rothstein allowed her to take her time, peeking into each home and going through it, looking for just the right one. The entire time he held Harry and allowed her to explore at her own pace.

Finally she came to a beautiful home set back from the main street surrounded by a wrought iron fence and set in the middle of a beautiful green lawn.

She knew that was the place she wanted. If she had to live her in this otherworld, a sort of semi-life, she wanted it here where the gardens surrounding the home made it seem less extravagant, rather, it made it seem quaint. Like a home ought to be.

"This one," she breathed, pushing open the gate. It gave easily, with not a squeak.

They all stepped into the yard and she hopped off the hard gravel that poked into her feet onto the grass.

Strange. She thought.

On the journey, she had stepped over many rocks and lumps in the earth, but it didn't hurt like this.

She pushed the thought to the back of her mind, putting it off as the fact that gravel looked sharper.

* * *

It seemed like days had passed, though it was hard to tell in this strange world.

Margaret, for the most part, spent her time indoors, avoiding the featureless sprites that served them in the house she had picked.

She played and read to her boys, trying hard to distract herself from the empty feeling of a world without time.

Avoiding thinking of her predicament too much, she thrust herself into being a full time mother for her sons, because she felt if she lingered, if she dwelt on where she was and what was happening, she would go mad.

Mr. Rothstein had retreated into his study and only came out periodically, going down the stairs and out into the city he forged with his will and he would come back quietly, like a cat in the night.

She didn't mind it that way, but she did wish for the company of an adult at times. There was only so much fairytales she could read before she yearned for talk of politics or history.

It was this desire that drove her from her rooms, boys trailing behind her as always, in search of a being with an actual face.

Mr. Rothstein wasn't in, he was out doing God only knew what, so she headed across town, moving for the building in the distance that somehow always seemed to be visible, despite the towering metal and glass buildings of the city.

She reached the building quicker than she expected, but it didn't surprise her. The world they were in was odd that way.

Pushing open the main door, she stepped in first, before motioning her sons to join her.

The building was quiet inside, empty and dim. The faint outlines of furniture she could see hearkened to an era that wasn't theirs. Not this old version of the dark world, but something slightly more modern.

"Mr. Benny?" She called out gently.

His last name escaped her.

"Hello?" She called once more as her sons suddenly dashed off into the interior of the building. "Boys!" She shouted after them, but they were already gone, disappeared into the shadows and the shapes of the place.

Hearing their distant giggles comforted her, but she remained determined to get them back, worried that the man who haunted the hotel would get upset.

Somewhere something crashed and broke and she gasped, hurrying along after her sons, deeper into the heart of the beast.

Bursting into a large room, she found herself facing a wall of liquor bottles and a bar. At the end of the bar, at the end of a long line of lined up bottles that ran the distance down the countertop, sat the young man from the cornfield, shoulders hunched over the bar, a half empty bottle and tumbler before him.

"Mr. Benny?" She greeted gently.

"They're in the kitchen," he murmured.

"Thank you. I'm sorry if they caused any serious damage."

He scoffed and turned around to face her, elbows resting on the bar behind him. For a moment his youthful face smiled serenely at her, before he calmly tossed his tumbler against the floor hard enough to shatter it.

Margaret stepped back from the chaos worriedly.

"Damage doesn't stick around here," he stated. "I wouldn't worry about it, sweetheart."

"My name's Margaret," she corrected. "You may call me Miss Rohan."

Benny beamed. "Sure, whatever shines your chassis."

She looked about at the bar. At the green patterned carpet, the red seats of the stools and chairs, at the brick and the wallpaper. When she looked back, Benny was sipping from a new glass as though his last one wasn't dashed against the floor at her feet.

Only it wasn't. The glass was gone, the scent of the spilled liquor was also absent.

Approaching the bar, she eased onto a stool beside him almost shyly and studied the line of bottles that ran from one end of the counter to the other.

"I'm gonna race," Benny said as he noticed her curiosity. "From one end to the other."

"Does drinking even do anything to you here?" She asked.

"It better by the time I reach the finish line," he returned plucking a cigarette from a holder and offering her one.

She shook her head.

"I didn't know him very well," he murmured as he lit his cigarette.

"Who?"

"Rothstein. Man came around but I never really knew him."

Margaret smiled kindly, unsure of what to say.

"You his side or what?"

"His side?"

"Skirt on the side," Benny clarified.

"Oh…I don't know."

They sat in silence for a moment, before Benny pushed away from the bar and turned to her.

"So," he began roughly, "talk if you're gonna."

"About what?" She asked.

"I dunno, you came here to me," he growled. "You have something brewing in that brain of yours or are you just pretty to look at?"

She smiled and struggled to find something to talk about with the man.

"Must be smart," Benny went on. "Rothstein wouldn't waste his time with no dumb Dora."

"What happened between Mr. Luciano and Mr. Rothstein?" She asked.

Benny inhaled deeply from his cigarette and slowly released the smoke from his lungs as he pondered her question, the furls curling around his head like a twisted sort of halo.

"Some guys know where they rank in life," he began. "Me? I'm happy just fucking and drinking, eh sorry, screwing."

Margaret smiled a little at his sheepish look.

"Keep the broads and the liquor flowing and I'm happy as a clam, Rothstein? He's happy with money and poker, doesn't want to take over the world, happy enough with New York. But Lucky? Lucky wants it all. Unfortunately he finds himself constantly getting yanked back by the collar by Rothstein. I dunno, they have a weird sort of father-son thing going."

"Do you think Lucky killed Mr. Rothstein?" Margaret asked.

"Nah," Benny said. "Like I said, a weird father-son thing."

"Do you remember how you died?" She asked, changing the subject gently.

Benny was quiet for a moment, smoking idly.

Margaret blinked and his face became a visage of death, blood poured like tears from his eyes and as she gasped, his face returned to normal as though nothing changed.

"I don't exactly remember the details," he murmured.

Feeling suddenly terrified of the place and the man, Margaret slid off the stool and whispered, "I should go."

Collecting her boys from the kitchen, she remembered taking one last look at Benny sitting at the bar in his empty hotel before leaving him to it.

That night was the first night in the strange place that she actually felt tired.


End file.
